


Tears of an Angel

by Woland



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Did I mention I was sorry?, Hurt/Comfort, I got inspired, I'm really sorry for this one, IT'S NOT MY FAULT, Loads and loads of angst, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, More hurt less comfort to be fair, Post-Canon, Protective Crowley, Tragedy, post-armageddidn't, tumblr art inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 04:04:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20960174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woland/pseuds/Woland
Summary: Years after Armageddidn't Hell comes looking for revenge.  And Crowley has to make a choice.  But it was never really much of a choice for him to begin with.





	Tears of an Angel

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I would never write a deathfic, and yet here I am, breaking my own promise (hangs head in shame). I blame the gorgeous, heartrending artwork on this tumblr post for forcing my hand: https://somethingjustsouthofbrilliance.tumblr.com/post/188169988445/punkeduppirate-golden-slumbers-fill-your-eyes

Adam’s wedding day is beautiful – a gorgeous, sun-stroked jewel of late summer, imbued with an intoxicating scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass. Not a hint of clouds in the brilliant blue sky that smiles down at the happy mingle of guests: some chatting amicably with those around them, others indulging, somewhat furtively but with obvious pleasure, in the impressive spread of refreshments heaped onto the white-clothed tables, others still swaying blissfully to the soft, enchanting sounds of music.

It’s perfect. And Crowley wouldn’t have expected it to be anything but. Adam, after all, is still, to this day, the Spawn of Satan, whom he so bravely, so brilliantly rejected all those years ago. And that means, reality is very much still _his_ to change the way he pleases.

Crowley can’t find it in himself to complain.

He leans casually back against the side of a gazebo, arms crossed on his chest. Smiles fondly as he watches Anathema drag Aziraphale out into the dancing area, the angel shooting a pleading look Crowley’s way before submitting to the inevitable with a resigned huff, hurriedly shoving the remainder of a strawberry tart into his mouth.

_Oh, angel…_

“Interesting setup you got here.”

He straightens out instantly, all sense of leisure gone from his posture, tension bleeding from every line of his body.

“What do you want, Hastur?”

“I’ve been watching you two,” the demon drawls out ominously from behind him – an oppressive, dangerous presence just off to the side, just out of his line of sight. And Crowley fights the urge to turn around; suppresses the frisson of unease the demon’s presence sends down his spine.

“What do you want?” he repeats in a growl of forced annoyance, even as his metaphorical heart clenches in mounting fear. Hastur’s been watching them. All these years. Does it mean he figured out their swap? Does it mean he knows?

“I know you tricked us,” Hastur answers his unspoken question, a note of smug satisfaction in his voice telling Crowley the demon noticed his panic despite Crowley’s best efforts. “I don’t know how you did it, but…” There’s an ugly bark of laughter – like a crack of a dry twig underfoot, followed by rustle of clothes and an overwhelmingly strong presence, dark, magical. “I don’t really care.”

And Crowley can’t help turning around now. Can’t help looking down at Hastur’s gloved hand, at the wicked-looking knife held cautiously in its grip. Can’t help the nasty, cold feeling that claws at his chest when he sees the flame-red sigils carved into the darkened blade.

“Oh, good, you recognize it.” Hastur’s smiling at him now – a dark, sadistically gleeful grin. Turns the blade in his hand in a mockery of awed contemplation. “A hellfire-forged blade with holy sigils – a perfect weapon against any being, ethereal or demonic.” Growls out low, his upper lip curling in predatory anticipation, “Heaven and Hell will be happy to see both of you gone. Me personally? After watching the two of you for a bit? I think killing just one of you will make for a far better torture.” He waves his free hand in the air, a look of almost blissful dreaminess spreading across his face. 

Crowley grinds his teeth together in helpless rage, glances back out to where his angel is fumbling dreadfully across from Anathema in a poor imitation of dancing, blissfully unaware of the danger lurking only a few feet away. Flinches when he feels Hastur shift closer.

“I’m feeling generous today, Serpent,” he murmurs, the smell of swamp and rot wafting over the side of Crowley’s face. “I’m gonna let you choose.”

_Choose_. A bitter smile twitches at the corners of Crowley’s lips, his eyes never leaving the achingly dear white-haired form in a cream color jacket. What is there to choose, really? His choice has been made over 6000 years ago, standing on that wall in the Garden of Eden next to a beautiful, mystifying angel who gave away his sword to protect humans and then proceeded to shield a demon from the First Rain.

He doesn’t even have to think about it.

“Me,” he states calmly, ignoring the sharp pang in his heart at the thought that this is it for him, that he will never see his angel again. “Take me.” Turns briefly back to his unwelcome companion to glare murderously into the bottomless dark pools of his eyes. “But thisss isss it, Hastur,” he hisses, low and menacing, putting all of his venom, all of his demonic, serpentine conviction into the words. “After thisss our debt isss paid in full. Nobody touches the angel, understood? Not your lot, not the Heaven. And you will make sure of that.” He leans in closer, eyes bleeding a terrifyingly hypnotic, poisonous yellow. “You will make sure of that, Hasssstur, or I swear on all that is unholy, that I will find a way to come back, and I will make you _wish _you were the first one through my office door that day instead of Ligur.” He lets his upper lip curl, lets his fangs slide out in warning. “Undersssstood?”

Hastur’s lips twist in an echoing snarl, but Crowley can see the minute perturbation on the other demon’s face, knows his threat (bluff, yes, but Hastur has no way of knowing that) has hit its mark.

“Meet me in the cemetery behind the church,” the Duke of Hell spits out, nodding blindly in the direction of the small village church that hosted the wedding ceremony a mere hour ago. And disappears in a cloud of thick gray smoke.

Crowley remains where he is a moment longer. Lets his gaze linger on Aziraphale for one last time, drinking in the sight of his dancing angel – so blessedly carefree, so endearingly clumsy, so unfailingly good, so… so… _beautiful_. He sighs, smiling despite the traitorous, anguished tremble of his lips. Closes his eyes, letting that final image of Aziraphale become engrained in his memory. And follows Hastur to his doom.

He doesn’t see Aziraphale turning to glance in his direction an instant before he disappears from view.

***

He reappears but a moment later in the place of Hastur’s choosing. Stumbles a bit on the uneven surface of a freshly laid grave.

And gasps, his breath choked off and stolen, as sharp pain explodes below his ribcage, doubling him over with the force of the blow. A wave of power rushes through him – angelic and demonic, woven together to create a monumental, monstrous hybrid of destruction. Cold and fiery, deadly and unstoppable, sluicing through his veins to tear him apart, piece by piece by piece.

He reaches forward on instinct, grabbing blindly, convulsively for the support of the putrid smelling shape that materializes in front of him. Groans pathetically as Hastur shoves the blade deeper with a hard, vicious thrust. And shudders, his fingers unclasping, nerveless, from the demon’s sleeve, as Hastur yanks the blade out and steps quickly back out of reach.

“We are even now,” Hastur observes dispassionately as Crowley sinks to his knees before him onto the clumpy ground, one hand pressed uselessly against the bleeding gaping hole in his chest, the other seeking purchase in the loose dirt. Cringes with sympathetic fear as Crowley draws in another harsh, labored wheeze of a breath, face twisting at the ever-mounting pain. 

“It was quicker for Ligur,” he notes darkly, sheathing the blade and putting it away into the folds of his coat. “Merciful almost, compared to yours.” 

His cheek twitches minutely, a fire of grim satisfaction flashing in the black depths. Then, suddenly, he squats down before the injured demon, stares unblinking into the wide, pain-glazed eyes. 

“But perhaps you can be thankful for a chance to say goodbye.” He cants his head to the side, nodding at something in the distance.

Blearily, Crowley follows his motion, and the cold that fills his chest no longer has anything to do with his impending death. Because there, weaving his way toward them between the maze of tombstones, is the angel, _his _angel.

_No._

He grasps for Hastur’s coat again, gritting his teeth at the fresh flare of pain that rips through him at the unsanctioned movement.

“Your promisssse… re… remember your…,” his voice cuts out, his throat spasming from a sudden buildup of pressure that drowns the rest of his words in a vicious gurgle of a cough that spills forth in a spectacular spray of blood.

He gasps, breathless, against the intensity of it. Squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, missing the grimace of disgust that flits across Hastur’s face as the demon raises his hand to vanish the bloody splatter that carried from his former colleague to settle on his face and clothes.

“I have not forgotten, Serpent,” he grouches, extricating himself once again from Crowley’s feeble grip. Straightens back out, making a show of dusting off his forever-filthy coat. His cheek twitches again – a tell of discomfort, as he forces out the parting words of (questionable) reassurance. “Have a nice… death.”

A snap of fingers and the Duke of Hell vanishes from sight, and then the angel is there, kneeling on the ground before Crowley, hands pawing frantically at the darkened, bleeding hole in the middle of his chest; grasping Crowley’s shoulders as he sways alarmingly on his gradually weakening knees. 

Crowley tries to steady himself, tries to look strong for his angel, but the devastating power ravaging his essence has already done too much damage, and he can’t help but succumb, slumping forward into Aziraphale’s chest with a helpless groan.

“Crowley?”

The angel’s voice trembles, tinged with desperation and fear, and Crowley can feel the same anxious tremble in the arms that wrap themselves around him; can hear the panicked beat of the angel’s heart. _This will not do_, he thinks, sluggish. He can’t leave his angel like this – so desperate, so panicked. He has to–

“I can’t… I can’t heal it. What…. Crowley, darling, _please_, what’s–?”

“Shhhhh….” He forces his head up, forces his weakened hand to move. Presses a shaking finger to the beautiful plump lips that he has been so fortunate, so privileged to taste in these past few years. How incredibly, insanely lucky he was! 

“Shhh,” he repeats, running careful, gentle fingers across the angel’s cheek, wiping away a streak of golden tears that trails down the soft pale skin. Frowns when fresh tears begin to trickle down the same track. _This isn’t right_, he thinks. Aziraphale shouldn’t be… he can’t…

“Don’t cry,” he pleads, voice raspy and shaking with pain that is becoming harder and harder to conceal. But he will try. He _has _to try. For his angel. “S’okay… Zira… sss’okay. I cho…chose this… My choicssssse…”

Tear-filled blue eyes widen in understanding, the angel glancing briefly at a spot where Hastur stood only moments ago, before shifting his grief-stricken, horrified gaze back to Crowley.

“No…,” he whines, tears falling harder now, as his arms tighten around Crowley’s shivering form in mounting despair. “No, Crowley… Crowley, you can’t….”

Crowley blinks at him fondly, a faint smile pulling at his blood-stained lips. “S’okay,” he exhales, fighting to speak against the gradually thickening blanket of darkness that begins to weigh down on him, threatening to pull him under. He can’t let it happen. Not yet. He needs to get the angel to understand, needs to explain. He knows that, once he surrenders to that darkness, he won’t get another chance.

“I had to… They won’t… won’t bother you now. Not any…anymore.” 

It’s important that Aziraphale knows this. Because it’s something that’s been bothering the both of them all these years – the fear that Heaven or Hell or both will be coming for them any moment. It dampened the serenity, the pleasure of that short time they spent together, forcing them to constantly look over their shoulders. But no more, no more…

What little strength he has left to keep himself upright runs out and he sags, boneless, in Aziraphale’s feverish embrace, their foreheads touching. 

Aziraphale is saying something, the angel’s breath hot and suspiciously wet against his skin, but Crowley can’t hear him, not anymore – the darkness pulling at him, engulfing his senses.

“Kiss me,” he asks instead – a barely there whisper. 

He can hardly feel his arms anymore, but he manages somehow to raise one, to hook it feebly around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, smearing blood onto the white curls. Tugs, trying to urge the angel closer. 

There’s barely any discernible pressure behind his gesture, but Aziraphale follows it nevertheless. Surges forward with a choked off sob, closing the already negligible gap between their mouths, latching on to Crowley’s lips as a man wandering for days in the sweltering heat of the desert latches on to the refreshing watery escape of an oasis.

The fear of loss, the desperate denial, the frantic need to hold on, and the love – overwhelming, all-encompassing, unfaltering love: Crowley reads it all on the trembling, tear-stained lips that cling to his own. It’s warm, the angel’s kiss. So beautifully warm against the numbing, agonizing cold that fills his entire being. 

He closes his eyes, sinks deeper into the kiss, trying to capture as much of that warmth as he can, to bask in his angel’s essence before darkness pulls him away for good.

It isn’t long now, he can feel it. Can feel himself falling, breaking will-lessly away from the soft anchor of Aziraphale’s lips – the warm light of his angel’s presence growing dimmer and dimmer, until only a tiny spark remains in the thick, stifling darkness that swathes his mind.

He latches on to it, weakly, stubbornly. Peels his eyes open, unsurprised to find the angel leaning over him, his face – a pale, haloed blur for his failing sight. But even now, faded almost beyond recognition, he’s still the most beautiful thing Crowley has ever seen.

He tells him so. Releases the truth of it on the final exhale his corporation’s lungs allow him. Along with a faint susurrant confession, “Love you… angel…”

A soft, wet splatter of a warm, golden tear on his ice-cold cheek is the last thing he feels.

FIN 


End file.
